Michelle had insisted on keeping the turnout money so bang went Rafiq’s drink with Amber. Please God, bring her and Mrs Wilkinson safe home.
Marius, preparing for ritual humiliation, retreated to the bar.
54
The starter on his rostrum called them into a barging, bumping start and they were off. Mrs Wilkinson was at the end of her season. Once they were racing, Count Romeo, who was fooling around at the back, suddenly realized he’d lost her. Catching sight of her lustrous, newly washed white tail disappearing round the first bend, he hurtled down the course after her. He was so incensed that she totally ignored his shrill call, he forgot to be idle and overtook her to get her attention. Mrs Wilkinson in turn was so outraged to be headed, she fought back and overtook him, grinding her teeth and lashing her tail, so he overtook her, and on it went.
Count Romeo gave every hurdle a lot of air while Mrs Wilkinson skimmed them, but Romeo displayed such a turn of foot he caught up between fences and didn’t even pause to check his mane on the big screen.
‘And Shade Murchieson’s orange and maroon silks are moving up,’ said the commentator, as Johnnie Brutus got to work on Preston, giving him not at all an easy ride as he thundered down, passing everyone to take the lead.
‘Come on, Wilkie,’ howled Willowwood.
‘Romeo, Romeo,’ screamed Ruby Barraclough.
Thwack went Johnnie’s whip again and again, clunk went his booted heels into Preston’s ribs, but he couldn’t catch the lovers. Encouraged by the mighty roar of the crowd, Mrs Wilkinson made a heroic last effort and, throwing herself forward, overtook the Count by a pale pink nose.
Miraculously Marius’s horses had come first and second, to bring him racing out of the bar, spilling whisky everywhere.
The Willowwood syndicate were yelling their heads off. Alban, braying like an old mule, was hugging Etta. Seth was hugging Trixie, what a body. Tilda hugged Alan, who turned his head slightly so as not to get bayoneted by her teeth. The Major hugged Phoebe, scratching her with his moustache, and sidled off to hug Etta, as Phoebe sidled off to hug Seth. Chrissie and Joey launched into a wild ecstatic jive, then, as she stumbled against him, he kissed her on the mouth, harder and harder.
Woody found himself hugging Niall and drew away, meeting his eyes. Then, with a bewildered smile, he hugged him again, realizing what a lean, elegant body Niall had.
Dora was on her mobile talking to the press:
‘Mrs Wilkinson’s seen off Preston and Oliver’s Travels.’
Harvey-Holden, on his mobile, was changing colour from sallow to olive green as Shade blamed him totally for Preston’s failure and Marius’s victory.
Except for her gleaming white teeth and the two pale circles round her eyes where her goggles had been, Amber was caked all over with mud, and so was her brave grey mare. For once Rafiq was all smiles as he ran towards her, patting Mrs Wilkinson over and over again, pulling her ears and hugging her.
‘Well done, Amber, well done, Wilkie.’
He looked so handsome with the tears spilling out of his pale grey eyes and his black curls ruffled that Amber was tempted to kiss him. She was only distracted by an At the Races microphone thrust under her nose.
‘Well done, Amber, great ride,’ said a delighted Robert Cooper.
‘What a credit to her connections,’ babbled Amber. ‘She’s a one-eyed wonder. Only one eye but the biggest heart in the world. Preston was our only worry and he couldn’t get near her, thanks to Count Romeo. Mrs Wilkinson has to be up there, and she sticks her neck out and really tries.’
Mrs Wilkinson loved praise and nudged Robert Cooper’s microphone.
‘And she’s beautifully looked after at home by Tommy Ruddock and Rafiq here.’ Amber tapped a bemused Rafiq on the head with her whip.
‘Is that really our ice-cool Amber?’ said Josh in amazement, as back at Throstledown the stable lads who’d been watching the race were dancing round the yard. Tommy decided not to resign after all, as she joyfully clocked Amber touching her hat with one finger to acknowledge the cheers as she rode into the winners enclosure. Mrs Wilkinson was delighted to disappear under a hailstorm of patting hands.
‘Darling, darling, darling little girl.’ Etta hugged her, then, looking round at a phalanx of snapping cameramen: ‘We must have Rafiq, Amber and all the syndicate in the picture with her. Where is Mr Pocock?’
‘He fainted with excitement,’ giggled Trixie. ‘Painswick revived him with